


The Oathbreaker's Daughter

by Wolves_Daughter (Queen_of_Ladybugs)



Series: The Oathbreaker's Daughter [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Kaer Hemdall, The Skellige Isles (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:41:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23732515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queen_of_Ladybugs/pseuds/Wolves_Daughter
Series: The Oathbreaker's Daughter [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1709404
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	1. Prologue

The silver haired child sat at the feet of the storyteller, along with all the other children in the village. No one paid her any heed as she gazed with bright sapphire eyes up into the face of the wizened old woman who used tales to educate the young of the small, unnamed village sheltered behind Kaer Hemdall. No one except for the scarred man who she called father, who sat at the tavern drinking sparingly from a flask of hot wine.

The woman tucked her hands under her cloak and stared down at the children. She smiled her mostly toothless grin before speaking. “Little ones, today we speak of the Aesyr and the gift it is said they gave to our world before departing,” she said.

The children all crowded closer. It was rare the tales changed and this was new to them all. “Who were the Aesyr, Mistress Finnbjornsdottir?” one of the children asked. The silver haired girl’s father sat up straighter.

“The Aesyr were an ancient, magical race,” the old woman said. “Spirits of the air and the storm, of ice and snow and rain and lightning. It was they who taught the gods to wield the elemental powers and granted the same knowledge to the magic users and the Witchers. Then they were betrayed and forced out by the actions of one of their own.”

“What do you mean?” another child asked.

Sigridana Finnbjornsdottir sighed. “An Aesyr who gave herself the name of Brishi, meaning ‘chosen’ in their tongue, was arrogant enough to believe she was the woman destined to birth the greatest hero of all time,” she said. “She wasn’t, of course, but like many of those whose folly was pride she couldn’t see that until it was too late.”

“What do you mean?” a third child asked.

“Brishi came to this world and did what many women do - she fell in love with a man,” Sigridana said. Several of the children giggled while some of the older ones groaned. Sigridana laughed. “Oh, I’ll not turn this one into a foolish bard’s tale. It’s not that kind of story. Brishi became the lover of a brave warrior who was a hero in his own way. She hoped to have a child with him, to bring the savior of the Aesyr and humans alike into this world.” The old woman’s smile faded and her expression changed to one of inexpressible sadness. “Instead her fate became one of intense tragedy.”

“What happened to her?” the silver-haired girl asked in a small voice.

“She died birthing her child,” Sigridana said. “Never living to see the beautiful infant she brought into the world. Some say it was a daughter fairer than the dawn, others a son who bid fair to be as strong and sturdy as his father. No one knows because the father himself arrived, slaughtered nearly all in the steading, and burnt it to the ground before taking his child and vanishing into the morning mist.”

“Nearly all?” the first child asked.

Sigridana nodded. “A child, probably no older than you, was collecting eggs. She survived by running to the steading’s barn and burrowing deep into the hay. She didn’t come out until the neighbors showed up a few days later, and by then the man and his child were gone.”

“But what does that have to do with the Aesyr?” the silver-haired girl asked.

“The Aesyr, seeing that Brishi set in motion the destruction of her own people - for when her remains were found it was obvious what she was - removed themselves from all contact with this world,” Sigridana said. “Leaving behind a child of mixed blood and their magic strong in the blood of our shamans and the dark-born Witchers.”

“Did anyone ever find the child and their father?” one of the oldest of the children asked.

Sigridana shook her head. “It’s suggested that the man who came wasn’t really the child’s father, but instead was a Witcher who saved the girl who survived the slaughter of her family by an insane Aesyr,” the old woman said. “Which means that Brishi’s child is, if it survived, most likely undergoing Witcher training as well.”

“Assuming that Witcher demonspawn didn’t drown it to save himself the trouble of dealing with a squalling brat,” the blacksmith called as he walked past. “Gunther, Irek, get over here. You’re done with tales for the day. It’s time for work.” The blacksmith’s two sons bounded up from where they sat and followed their father to his forge.

“Off you all go then,” Sigridana said. “Work waits for all of you and I’m not going to be responsible for you getting whipped for disobedience.” All the children scattered, running back to their homes or to their parents’ sides. 

The silver-haired girl drifted over to her father. He ruffled her hair before sending her back to their rickety cottage along the shoreline to take care of her morning chores.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celne and her father, Kaspien Stormwatcher, find some new treasures as they haul in his nets. The jarl's men come to question them - and to bring a visitor that Kaspien would far rather let the sea claim.

Celne watched the sky with a sense of growing dread. “Father, the storm’s getting closer,” she called. “You need to come in.”

“I’ll be in when I’m good and ready,” Kaspien Stormwalker snarled. “There aren’t any clouds in the sky and you bleating at me like some damn goat that a storm’s coming isn’t going to get the work done.”

Celne made a rude noise in the back of her throat. She rolled her sleeves down and took off her apron. She twisted her silver hair into a knot and ran out. “Have I been wrong about incoming storms?” she demanded, taking hold of the rope Kaspien was struggling with. The strain on her arms and back told her he was pulling something huge in with his net this time.

“Last winter,” Kaspien grunted. “Told me it was a mild storm. Turned out to be the worst one of the season.”

“So I didn’t know the storm was a bad one,” Celne said. “I knew it was coming long before the watchers up at the top of Kaer Hemdall saw the first shreds of grey.”

“Aye, yer a bright girl,” Kaspien groaned. “Now pull, damn yer arse.”

“I _am_ pulling. What did you catch this time, an entire ship?” Celne said, gasping as her muscles strained.

The two were the only ones left living in the skeletal ruins of what had once been a thriving, if tiny, village at the foot of the giant spire of stone the folk of the Skellige Isles called Kaer Hemdall. The gigantic rock was now used by the Stormwatchers to send warnings of the terrible squalls that were more commonplace these days.

Celne remembered the day the order came for the scattered remnants of her home village to leave the area. Kaspien refused and, to her surprise, the high priestesses from the Temple of Freya on the nearby island of Hindarsfjall agreed to let them stay even when they evacuated everyone else.  
The tide came in one day and never went back out, reducing the available land to the mere spit of crumbling sand Celne and her father called home. Every time she asked him if they could move to one of the villages on Hindarsfjall, he reacted with such violence that she’d finally stopped asking.

“Pull, damn yer hide,” Kaspien roared.

“I _am_ pulling, you _bloody_ great bastard,” Celne shouted. With a groan the net came in.

To Celne’s surprise there were several chests, boxes, and the remnants of a broken up ship. “By the Aesyr,” Kaspien said. “That’s more treasure in one haul than we’ve seen in almost a full season. Probably more like two or three seasons.” He reached over and smacked her on the back of the head, hard enough to send her staggering away a few steps. “Next time you use that language towards me I’ll knock loose a few of yer teeth.”

“Father, I love you dearly but sometimes you are a bloody arse,” Celne said. “Now, can we please get these things inside before the storm hits? I’d rather we not lose them back to the sea.”

“You will not hear any argument from me on that one, Celne,” Kaspien said. “I don’t need the jarl laying claim to our work either.”

Celne nodded. She heard the faint shouting from up above. She glanced at the horizon. “Fires of damnation,” she muttered.

“Move, girl,” Kaspien said.

The two got everything into their ramshackle cottage. The first hint of the encroaching storm came with the walls shaking due to the wind picking up speed. Celne glanced out the window as she pried open one of the boxes. “Storm gods take those blasted watchers,” she muttered.

“The jarl’s men?” Kaspien asked.

“Aye,” Celne said.

“I’ll deal with them,” Kaspien said. “You keep looking for treasure to sell next time we go to the village.”

The door nearly gave way under the pounding fist of the jarl’s guards. Kaspien opened it and glared at him. “Master Stormwalker, I heard you had a rather exceptional haul today,” the man said, trying to push past him into the house.

“I’ve nothing to show for it, save for sore muscles and a rather cranky daughter, Sergeant,” Kaspien said. “If I find anything interesting you know I always turn it in.”

“After trying to sell it further up in the Isles,” the man said.

“I’ve got a daughter to take care of, Sergeant. If it means selling those things I scavenge from shipwrecks then that’s how I have to do it,” Kaspien said.

“Well, that haul is only the first thing I wanted to talk to you about,” the man said.

“What is it now?” Kaspien asked. “As you can see we’ve a storm coming in. I’d like to make sure we’re set before it hits.”

“You’ll be entertaining a house guest during the storm. I hope you have enough supplies,” the guardsman said. “All right, Witcher. This is the man you want to talk to. He and his daughter know more about these shores than anyone - alive or dead.”

Kaspien stiffened but he moved to the side as a tall, muscular man dressed all in black walked into the room. His hair was snow white though there was no sign of age in his rugged, scarred face. Celne saw his golden eyes take in the simple furnishings and the piles of scavenged treasures from wrecked ships that still needed to be sold.

“Don’t be getting no ideas ‘bout my daughter, White Wolf,” Kaspien said, slamming the door in the guard’s face.

“So tell me Gascaden,” the man her father called White Wolf said. “When were you going to bother letting Vesemir know you were still alive?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gascaden was a contemporary of Geralt's, whose fate was never really addressed in either the books or the games. It's expected he died during one of the raids on Kaer Morhen, but it's never fully explained. We might see it better explained later in the Witcher series on Netflix - but for now, this is what I'm doing with it.


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celne loses her temper with her father. She and Geralt share a moment of panic on the beach. The storm finally breaks.

“Father?” Celne asked.

“Don’t mind him, Celne,” Kaspien said. “Go check the windows. Make sure everything’s shut up tight.”

Celne abandoned the things she was going through, rinsed her hands in the concoction of witch hazel and wine that took the nastiness of the sea from her skin, and went to check the windows.

“Kaspien?” she heard the Witcher ask. “Father?”

“Do me a favor and keep quiet, Geralt,” her father said, his words more polished than she’d ever heard him speak before. “I’ll explain everything to you later tonight, after the girl’s gone to bed.”

“Fair enough,” Geralt said.

Celne pushed all thoughts of anything but the storm from her mind. She glanced out the window and smiled in spite of the strange man in her house. She felt a shiver go down her spine as the first clouds appeared in the sky.

“Celne, quit your woolgathering, girl,” Kaspien barked. “You’re shutting windows, not shearing sheep.”

“Aye, Father,” Celne said, coming back to the moment with an almost physical jolt. She quickly secured the shutters over the thick glass panes.

Geralt and her father were sharing some ale when she rejoined them. “Don’t bother with the haul right now,” Kaspien said. “Add some more water to the soup and get the bread baking. We’ll need food to keep us through the night.”

“Father, if I add any more water to the soup we’ll be drinking it like ale rather than eating it proper with a spoon,” Celne said.

“Then fix something else. We have the fish and whatever else we hauled in today along with the shipwreck remains,” Kaspien snapped.

Without a word Celne opened the door and stalked out. She kicked off her shoes and threw them back inside, not caring if she hit her father or their unwanted house guest, before walking only a few steps away from the door. The sea water washed up over her knees.

Celne pulled her hair down and let the wind carry it away from her soft-featured face. She couldn’t go any farther. She’d be dragged out to sea and that would be a poor end for the woman who made her life predicting the coming of the storms.

“Your father says your temper is made worse by the storms.” She didn’t turn around but knew it was Geralt who’d come out after her instead of Kaspien.  
Or Gascaden. What was his true name? Who was he? Who was she? Was he a Witcher? Was she Witcher-born? But Witchers were sterile. Everyone knew that.

_How much of my life is a lie_ , Celne silently asked the wind before turning to look over her shoulder. “No,” she said. “It’s made worse by him, especially when he’s been drinking. And that mug you shared with him? That’s not even close to being his first today.”

“Your father should be fairly resistant to becoming drunk,” Geralt said.

“He might have been when you knew him last,” Celne said, turning her attention back to the sea. “Now? A jug of ale will flatten him.”

“Does he put anything in his jug?” Geralt asked.

“I don’t know,” Celne said. “He’s already drinking by the time I see him in the morning.”

“You should come back inside. The storm is just going to get worse,” Geralt said.

“Storms don’t frighten me. People do,” Celne said.

“Celne, your father wants you to come back inside,” Geralt said.

“Aye, I’m sure,” Celne said. She sighed and turned to face him. A roar behind her made her turn back around just as Geralt drew his silver blade. “Take yourself back outside the harbor, Master Troublemaker. You’re not wanted here.”

The beast, which should have sent her running in fear, roared again. Its massive claws flailed near her but didn’t connect. “You need to run,” Geralt shouted.

“He’s not going to hurt me,” Celne said, frowning. “He’s gotten himself caught in a fishing net.” She turned to Geralt, her hand out. “Give me your dagger.” Geralt hesitated. “Your dagger, Witcher.” Geralt pulled his knife and handed it to her hilt first. “Never attack right away when a moment’s study can tell you how to properly handle a creature’s true nature.”

“Where did you hear that?” Geralt asked.

Celne didn’t answer him right away. The razor sharp blade sliced through the thin, tough cord that made up the fishing nets used in the Skellige Isles. Once the young sea dragon - for that was what had come to pay her a visit - was free, it swam off with a quieter roar.

Celne dragged the remnants of the net back up onto the shore. She handed Geralt his blade back. “My father told me that one, many times,” she said. “It’s saved us fighting when we didn’t need to. Guess he’ll be pleased with the added cording to repair his nets.” They walked inside as day turned to night because of the great, black clouds and the first flashes of lightning split the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know things are starting slow. They are going to get far more interesting very soon.


End file.
